A Reason to Believe (5 page)

“Irish. And for your information, this thing was

sold out months ago. I practically had to auction

off my firstborn to get us two tickets.”

“Well, tempting as it occasionally might be to

sell Kyle, you should get your money back. I’m not

going.” He tossed the flyer onto the counter with an

air of finality and reclaimed his coffee mug.

Instead of responding immediately, which was

what he expected, she took another sip of her

coffee, looking thoughtful. “I thought we agreed

last night that maybe the right thing to do was talk

to an expert.” Her voice was neutral.

Matt’s lip curled. “Oh, like ‘renowned medium’

Paddy O’Malley? A man who advertises on a

chartreuse green flyer?”

“His name,” Sheila said with a pointed look, “is

Kiernan Fitzpatrick, and I doubt he picked out the

card stock personally. You might not have ever

heard of him before, but I have.”

“Where?”

“He has a television show, something you might

know if you ever watched anything other than

Sports Center.
What kind of gay man are you,

anyway? We get Logo here, you know.”

He snorted.

“His show is pretty popular. And he’s actually

kind of amazing.”

“At what? Communing with the dead? Give me

a break.”

“I’ve seen the show,” she went on earnestly.

“Several times. I’ve seen the people he’s done

readings for. I don’t believe he’s a fake. He’s

astonishingly accurate.” She set her cup aside and

crossed her arms, mirroring his posture. “He’s

also worked with a number of police departments

on unsolved murders.”

“What police departments?” he asked, his voice

tinged with skepticism.

“Boston, for one. And Seattle.”

He pursed his lips. “Boston and Seattle both

hired this guy as a consultant.” He shook his head.

“I don’t believe it.”

“Actually, I think he was hired by the victims’

families.” She lifted her chin obstinately.

“Did he find the killers?”

She hesitated. “No.”

“See?” His smirk was smug. “He’s a fake.”

“But,” she said, her face clearly showing her

irritation, “he did find the location of two bodies.

Bodies of kids. Missing children, who would have

stayed listed that way if he hadn’t found them. At

least now there’s a chance to bring their killers to

justice. Think of the parents of those missing kids.

At least now they have closure.”

“
Closure
is psycho-babble crap.” His voice

was tight. “There is no
closure
for the families of

murder victims. Other people say that in order to

make themselves feel better. And I’m surprised he

didn’t get arrested for the murders himself.

Knowing where the bodies are buried is usually

the domain of the bad guys.”

“God, you’re such a damned hardhead,” Sheila

burst out. “He didn’t get arrested because he was

hundreds of miles away at the time of the murders.

And what is it going to hurt to just go and listen to

this guy?”

“What the hell for? I don’t buy into this shit,

Sheila. You know that.”

“Says the man who saw a ghost yesterday.”

Matt glared but didn’t retaliate, and heavy

silence settled in the space between them.

Sheila sighed, propping her hands on her hips.

“Look, he’s in town for a symposium at the

university. He’s only doing one public session,

today at the Hilton. It will probably last all of

about three hours. He does readings from the

audience. It’s all completely random. Odds are he

won’t pick you. But he really is fascinating. What

can it hurt to just go and listen to him?” She

paused, her eyes imploring. “Please. I’d like to

hear what he has to say. Come with me. You just

might learn something.”

He made a scoffing sound in his throat. “It’s

more likely you’ll have wasted your money. How

much did this thing cost, anyway?”

She grimaced. “Enough we aren’t telling your

brother about it. As far as he knows, I’m taking you

to lunch.”

Matt’s lips twisted as he felt his resistance

wavering. “Oh, you’re taking me to lunch all right.

If you force me to sit through this crap, at least I

get a steak out of it.”

* * *

answered calls there and had a drink or two in the

bar. The lobby was huge, with soaring modern

lines and white travertine marble on the floors.

Massive

canvases

of

splashed

colors

impersonating modern art hung on the walls, and

the brass chandeliers were comprised of hard lines

and angles. The place felt cold, and he didn’t like

it. His opinion was reinforced when he

accompanied Sheila into one of the personality-

free conference rooms and took a seat on one of

two hundred mass-produced hotel chairs. The

space smelled of burnt coffee and stale cigarette

smoke.

The diversity of the crowd surprised him. He’d

been expecting a sea of overweight middle-aged

women in polyester pants. There were some of

those, but there were also young professionals and

older couples dressed in high-end designer

clothes. While the crowd appeared to be pulled

from all walks of life, they shared a commonality

of expression. They looked earnest, impatient and

anxious. With a sinking feeling in his chest, Matt

realized exactly who they were.

One had only to have experienced loss to

recognize it. They were the bereaved, almost all of

them. Some were merely curious, but the majority

were grieving. They’d lost someone near to them,

someone important. It had brought them to the

crowded ballroom in the hope that someone might

be able to tell them it was all right, their loved one

wasn’t gone forever, and death hadn’t been the

end.

His eyes fixed on the twisted tissue in one older

woman’s hand. When he looked up, he found her

returning his gaze with a combination of fear and

desperation, and it made him angry. Really, really

angry.

He knew these people, had felt what they had.

He’d had someone he loved taken from him. He

knew the wound that opened in your soul and

wouldn’t close, understood the pain of having

something so perfect, so precious, just—end. He

knew what it felt like to bleed internally for

months, to pray and rage and bargain. He’d tried to

reason with God, receiving only silence in return.

Doubting he could bear to remain while

someone capitalized on the pain surrounding him,

he leaned toward Sheila, who was leafing through

the program they’d received at the door. He hadn’t

even opened his, which sat abandoned on the floor

between his feet.

“Sheila, I…”

The rest of the sentence was lost when a restive

stirring started near the front of the room. It spread

quickly through the crowd, followed almost

instantly by an expectant hush. Sheila shushed him,

lifting her chin and leaning forward. Matt sighed

heavily and settled into his chair.

A young woman came to stand before a

microphone on the elevated platform at the front of

the room. She studied the crowd impassively and

seemed content to wait until she had everyone’s

attention. She was pretty and petite, with fair skin

and waist-length hair so dark it was nearly black.

Her eyes were wide and light-colored, probably

blue, and she was wearing skin-tight jeans and a

Bon Jovi T-shirt. With dark liner around her eyes

and black nail polish on her nails, she certainly

didn’t resemble anyone who might be there in a

professional capacity. The room settled into

expectant silence.

“Good afternoon. I’d like to go over some

ground rules before we begin.” Her voice was

surprisingly husky but friendly. “There will be no

photography allowed during the session. Kiernan

finds it distracting, and if you are found in the

possession of a camera or a camera phone, I’m

afraid security will take it from you. Same goes for

recording equipment of any kind. If you’d like to

purchase a DVD of this session, those will be

made available on our web page at a later date.”

“When he can make sure he gets the profits,”

Matt grumbled.

Sheila elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

The young woman up front sent him an amused

look, as if she knew exactly what he’d said. “You

should know going in that Kiernan does not control

these sessions,” she went on. “The departed who

appear to him do.”

Matt managed to refrain from rolling his eyes.

“In light of this, please do not raise your hand

unless something he says sounds as if he might be

referring to your loved one. He has no idea how

many spirits, if any, will appear, but he will try to

speak for as many as he can. Because of time

constraints, he does not do private readings as a

result of these open meetings. If you’d like a

private consultation, you can make arrangements at

his website, www.spirits_speak.com. All right?”

She looked around the room expectantly. When no

one raised their hand, she gave a faint smile.

“So what is she, his handler?” Matt murmured.

Sheila responded by shushing him.

“Now that the business is out of the way…” The

woman paused and glanced toward a curtained

area, waiting for something. Apparently she saw it

and turned back to the crowd. “It’s my pleasure to

introduce Kiernan Fitzpatrick!”

The reaction was enthusiastic but polite. No

whistles or catcalls, just an extended round of

applause as the young woman left the platform. It

continued even as the stage remained empty when

she disappeared behind the curtain.

Matt did not join in. If he thought Sheila

wouldn’t nag him for the next five years, he’d have

simply left and taken a cab home. But she’d never

forgive him, and while he wasn’t really afraid of

her wrath, he didn’t want to deal with it either. So

he sat and he waited, his mouth twisted

sardonically to one side.

Abruptly, a young man bounded from behind the

curtain. The applause swelled, and Matt was sure

there’d been a mistake. This was the famous

medium? Was it some kind of a joke? But Sheila

was smiling and applauding with the rest of them.

If Kiernan Fitzpatrick was five foot eight, Matt

would have been surprised. He moved with

athletic grace, and Matt couldn’t help but admire

his physique. He had a lithe, solid build under his

tattered Levi’s and fitted hoodie, and his shoulders

were square and his thighs muscled. He was

handsome, too. Thick, messy black hair was short

on the sides and along his nape, slightly longer

over his forehead, and his face was angular and

fine-boned. His complexion was fair, smooth and

unlined, but a bluish shadow darkened his square

chin, indicating the presence of a heavy beard. It

was the only sign he wasn’t a teenager, but Matt

doubted he was more than twenty. The medium’s

most striking feature was his eyes. Huge and so

blue that even twenty-five rows back, Matt could

see the color.

He nudged Sheila’s arm. “He’s a kid.”

“He’s twenty-seven, which you’d know if you’d

read the program.”

Fitzpatrick jogged up the steps to the small

stage, the applause still ringing when he stopped in

front of the microphone. He looked around the

room, grinning impishly and rubbing the palms of

his hands on the denim covering his thighs,

bouncing on his toes as if he was brimming with

excess energy and couldn’t contain it.

An indentation appeared near the left corner of

his lips, which made him look younger still, and he

reached up absently and unzipped his hoodie.

Underneath it he wore a white T-shirt with black

printing. It read I’m Not Short, I’m Fun-sized.

Sheila laughed and angled her head toward

Matt. “Admit it,” she said as the applause went on.

“He’s adorable.”

Matt didn’t comment, but he didn’t deny it,